A Kiss Can Be Even Deadlier
by Rygelina
Summary: Accidents happen in kitchens, and this one leads Alana to something very unexpected. Set in the beginning of season 2, before the trial. Rating Hannibal-stories is incredibly difficult, but this one gets a T, just to be on the safe side.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters and situations of "Hannibal". No copyright infringement is intended.

 **A/N:** This was the first "Hannibal" story I ever wrote. It began life as a very simple story about a kiss (which garnered me some strange looks from my friends), but then season 2 started and, well... things got considerably more scary and complicated. Not to mention that I had to battle a certain amount of squeamishness when it came to the actual kissing part. Suffice it to say, I'm completely over that now. :) Hrm...where were we? Ah, yes. Plot. This is my attempt at analyzing Alana and her state of mind in the beginning of season 2. Enjoy.

 **A Kiss Can Be Even Deadlier**

" _When my love swears that she is made of truth_

 _I do believe her, though I know she lies..._

 _O! love's best habit is in seeming trust..."_

Shakespeare, "Sonnet 138"

* * *

Alana glanced up from her carrot, the knife stilling its chopping motion.

It was another quiet evening in Hannibal's kitchen – no doubt an attempt to distract her from the distressing events of the past weeks.

They were making dinner, chopping and stirring in companionable silence. Soft strains of music filtered in from the dining room, and a glass of Hannibal's special ale stood on the counter next to her, shimmering in dark, amber swirls like a goblet of liquid, reddish-stained gold.

Her head cocked as she considered Hannibal's last words.

She cut her eyes to his, going for surreptitious and failing miserably. He was watching her, a part teasing, part challenging, glint in his eyes, the corners of his mouth curling up in the faintest of smiles. _Is Hannibal flirting with me?_ It was always hard to tell, he had a devilish knack for double entendres that used to drive her completely up the wall. Still did, on occasion.

She couldn't help it; her cheeks reddened. She twitched her eyes away from his, not sure what to think of that look.

Normally, she would have answered with an equally equivocal remark, knowing he enjoyed their verbal sparring, and her stubborn streak in particular. Will's arrest and subsequent incarceration, however, had shaken her to the core, and she was still fighting to regain her equilibrium. So instead of meeting him head on, she regressed to the early days in their relationship, when she had stuttered and blushed, and preferred to hide behind her hair rather than face those unwavering eyes that cut right through her like diamond-tipped drill-bits.

Still feeling the heat in her cheeks, she ran her fingers distractedly over the blade, wiping away the remaining slices of carrot. For a moment, she caught her reflection in the gleaming steel, clear and sharp like in a mirror. Then the knife sliced into her palm and it was extinguished in a wash of red.

She jumped and cried out, the knife clattering to the floor. She squeezed her fist closed, but blood oozed out and dripped on the cutting board just the same. It hurt like hell, and she moaned through clenched teeth, hunching over and clutching her hand. Tears started trickling down her face.

Hannibal didn't say anything, only whisked her towards the tap and turned on the cold water, bending quickly to retrieve the knife from the floor and placing it primly next to the sink.

"Let me see," he said calmly and coaxed her fist open.

Alana hissed as the ice cold water hit the wound. For a moment, she instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip was strong and he wouldn't let her. The cut wasn't dangerously deep, but there was a lot of blood. Her knees suddenly turned to water.

Hannibal caught her around the waist as she wobbled on her feet, her free hand flying up to his chest for balance. He gave her an amused glance out of the corner of his eye.

"After all these years, you still cannot face the sight of your own blood." He clicked his tongue at her in soft reproach.

She blushed, again, faced with the reminder that he knew most of her weaknesses. Still, she raised one eyebrow frostily. "Your point being?"

He smiled, showing a lot of teeth. "Only that there must be a fascinating story behind it," he said with a speculative glance. She had to look away. Apparently, that was all the answer he needed.

He was still supporting her, his arm strong and steady around her waist. She could feel the heat of his long, supple fingers through the thin material of her dress. It felt surprisingly... nice, and she leaned into him, acquiescing to his protectiveness.

The sharp, immediate pain in her hand was fading, settling into a dull ache much like the one that had taken up residence in her heart. A tiny crack appeared in her defenses at the reminder, and that ache flared to life again, as it was wont to do at the most unexpected moments. Her control slipped and a muffled sob escaped from her lips. She knew he must have felt her shoulders shake, but he didn't say anything, only hushed her gently and brushed his lips against her forehead. The touch reminded her that she wasn't alone, and she smiled, a wave of affection soothing the flare of pain.

The blood was washing away, a swirl of scarlet disappearing down the drain. A trail of crimson drops dotted the polished worktop, glistening in the light like tiny rubies. The knife was still smeared with it, resembling something from a particularly ghoulish crime scene. She frowned, knowing he liked his kitchen spotless.

"Sorry about the blood," she said, glancing up at him.

His face was as inscrutable as ever, but she thought she saw the tiniest twitch of humor at the corner of his mouth. "Give it no further thought. It's hardly the first time."

Never before had they been so close, and suddenly a frisson of awareness danced over her skin. She could feel the heat of his body radiating against hers. As if by their own volition, her fingers splayed against the smooth fabric of his dress shirt, almost caressing it, feeling his slow, steady heartbeat underneath. A hint of cologne wafted in the air, the scent so subtle and multifaceted that she couldn't tell exactly what she was smelling, only that it was exquisite.

She couldn't look away, mesmerized by his eyes and their startling proximity. They were twin pools of darkness, both alluring and unfathomable. Beneath their smiling surface – where beams of light bounced like on a roiling, midnight sea – elusive shadows chased each other, hinting at untold depths in his psyche.

Hannibal had secrets. Alana had always known that.

At a glance, he was exactly what he seemed, but Alana had known him long enough to realize that much of him was hidden, locked away, and rarely let out on leave.

It had never bothered her, not in itself. Everyone had secrets. She knew it better than most, and so she had simply extrapolated. She had taken all the visual cues and rare snippets of information and sketched his image in her mind. Only, lately – even now standing in his arms – she couldn't shake the feeling that that image was somehow skewed; that what lay behind those lovely eyes was infinitely more than merely professor, mentor and friend.

She felt like she had stepped out into a quagmire, and what she had thought was solid, familiar ground suddenly shifted under her feet.

It made her attraction to him a very uncomfortable thing indeed.

His thumb was rubbing slow, languorous circles on her palm, the touch electric against her cold skin. Then it slid down over her wrist, caressing the delicate skin over her pulse, eliciting a very telling hitch in her breath.

She swallowed. "Hannibal, please..." She didn't know what that soft, breathless plea meant, but her eyes fell to his lips, and she suddenly found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him, a thought she feared was written all over her face. It wasn't a new thought, not at all; his response, however, took her by surprise.

Hannibal opened a cabinet and took out a clean towel from a neatly stacked pile inside, shaking it out and wrapping it around her hand tightly. He held her hand up to his shoulder, squeezing it hard. His fingers were like steel, and she winced in pain.

"We have to stop the bleeding," he murmured with a distracted air, eyes caressing her face.

Then he kissed her.

It was a soft kiss, a mere brush of skin against skin, but it sent a bolt of exhilaration through her, like the twinge in the pit of your stomach as a roller coaster starts plummeting towards the ground.

The kiss deepened, his lips gliding more forcefully over hers, and she couldn't help the thrilled moan that escaped the back of her throat. His hand slowly caressed her spine, chills erupting in its wake. Then it moved up, fingers twining in her hair and gently tugging her head back, exposing more of her throat. He trailed kisses down the side of her neck, like a cascade of sparks. His lips were hot against her skin, almost feverishly so, and very skillful. She felt a tiny graze of teeth and shuddered against him. He was still squeezing her hand, and pleasure mingled with the pain until she could barely tell one from the other.

Then the memory of her last kiss exploded in her mind.

 _Will... I'm so sorry..._

The moment she pushed against him, he pulled back. She lowered her eyes and tried to catch her breath. Images of Will and their tender, tentative kiss played over and over again in her head, guilt and pain mixing with the desire already roiling inside her.

"Alana..." he started, but at her insistent shake of the head he fell silent, watching her intently.

She recognized the analyzing look in his eyes and knew he was probably seeing more of her than she was comfortable with. A lick of panic hit her. It was all too much, and an irresistible urge to run away welled up inside her. For once in her life she didn't take the time to analyze what she was feeling; she simply acted on it.

"Please, let me go," she whispered.

For a moment his grip on her hand tightened, but then he released her. "You will need a few stitches. I can do it here, if you wish." His voice was calm, politely offering to help, though probably knowing what the answer would be.

Once again, she shook her head and forced out a smile. "Don't worry, I'll be fine." Then she backed away from him. She hesitated. "Hannibal, I..." As soon as her eyes met his, the words died on her tongue. "I'm sorry..."

Then she turned around and hurried out of the kitchen.

* * *

She didn't see Hannibal's hand twitching towards the blood-stained knife as she turned her back and ran, a predatory instinct he curbed almost at once.

He listened to her steps fading into nothing... and smiled.

The End


End file.
